


Hunger

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 04:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: You know it's your punishment for turning her down earlier. She's a tease--that fact you're well-aware of--but she usually only makes you suffer for so long before taking mercy on you.There will be no mercy this time, you realize with chagrin. She will build you up, wind you up, and then leave you wanting.





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story about a thousand years ago--give or take--and kept getting hit with writer's block. But finally, here's the finished product. Hope it's good enough.

She gives you that look again as the town car crawls through Manhattan traffic, and you do your best to ignore her.

Sometimes you wonder if she regrets taking up with an older lover who doesn't always mirror her stamina, though you actually were in the mood before you left the house.

But this luncheon you're already running late to is important and, knowing Andrea, she would have made you more late. One orgasm would have turned into two, then three, and before long you would have found yourself sprawled at the foot of your bed, no longer hungry for anything else.

So you refused and she pouted and now she's giving you these heated glances that make you ache between your thighs. Her lips are full and red and her eyes somehow look bigger than usual with their smokey make-up. Back home, you deemed the look fashionable and tasteful. Now it's torrid, especially when her tongue sneaks out to run slowly across her lips. The images it conjures up in your head are far from appropriate outside of your bedroom and you turn to look out the window at the tamer scenery passing by.

In your head, you curse every driver on the road for dragging along instead of just _going_ , but then, from the other side of the backseat, you hear shuffling, sense movement, and turn your head just in time to see Andrea's heavy, faux-fur wrap land between the two of you.

Curious (because despite the heating in the car, it's still quite chilly), your eyes lift to meet that _look_ again, and now it's accompanied by a sultry, sly smirk that brings to your mind more images you don't want to dwell on with your driver about a foot away.

You start to think that it might not be entirely up to you because then, incredibly, impossibly, outrageously, Andrea's lean, gentle fingers--adorned by rings you picked for her yourself and delicately manicured nails--wrap around the top button on her silk, green blouse and start playing around. They tug, they twist, and finally, they pop it open and your eyes pop open as well.

There's hardly a cleavage to reveal with just the top button undone, but now, with her smirk widening to reveal two lines of perfectly white teeth, you think you know exactly where this is going and you gulp. And glare, because just what in the world does she think she's doing? She's a rational, mature woman, who should know better than to play these little games with you in a car driven by a third party. Or anywhere outside of the privacy of your own home, for that matter.

Only now, _you_ don't exactly feel like a mature, rational woman because a knot deep inside your stomach begins to curl almost painfully and your whole body feels warm as she fingers the next button. To your horror, you realize that your avid eyes are following her every movement with anticipation like some horny 16-year-old, unable to control their hormones. You think you might be blushing, too.

You know it's your punishment for turning her down earlier. She's a tease--that fact you're well-aware of--but she usually only makes you suffer for so long before taking mercy on you.

There will be no mercy this time, you realize with chagrin. She will build you up, wind you up, and then leave you wanting. You're beginning to regret taking up with _her_.

The second button slips out of its loophole with ease, and though the cleavage is still tasteful and presentable enough, her fingers delicately move the top of the blouse aside, as if showing you what you're missing. The silk slides smoothly against her equally soft skin--the green a perfect contrast with her white and slightly freckled chest--and reveals just that hint of a mound; a supple curve disturbing an otherwise flat landscape.

You should be surprised at her boldness, yet you aren't. She might have never applied it to this aspect of your life--or, well, rather this _setting_ \--but she's never been anything but bold, since the day you met her. She's untamable like that; a wild and free spirit that knows just what she wants, knows exactly how to get it, and has never let you off the hook easily--and possibly never will.

You barely register the third button coming undone, until she moves the blouse aside again, this time allowing your eyes to feast on a more generous view. That's also when you realize that the black, lacy bra she was wearing at home--the bra you vividly recall witnessing her put on--is no longer there.

You almost choke on your own breath at the notion that she probably, quite certainly planned this little torture in advance. When is she planning to stop? Just how far will she go before deeming your lesson learned?

Your eyes dart to the rearview mirror. Exactly how much of the backseat can your driver see in it? You remind yourself that he is Miranda Priestly's personal, experienced chauffeur, so if his job is important to him, he'll know not to dwell on the happenings behind him. But Andrea is playing a very risky game nonetheless. A game that, you tell yourself, you do not want to be a part of.

You don't say that aloud, though. You don't say anything, in fact, and you're not sure how convincing your glare is anymore because Andrea seems to only be urged on, perhaps by her own brazenness. Then again, your scaring techniques haven't worked on her in quite some time.

You should have given her sex at home, like she wanted. But then you wouldn't have gotten this little show.

With great difficulty, your eyes leave her chest to focus on hers, and she must sense your struggle because she gives you that sultry smile again and runs her tongue across her lips, even more provocatively than before. The gesture only tells you one thing: "Imagine what else this tongue could do."

Involuntarily, you gulp, though swallowing is becoming a challenge, and quickly divert your eyes. Though the next destination they land on does nothing to release the knot in your stomach as the blouse moves again--and at this point, it doesn't even need help from her fingers; just loose, flappy fabric reacting to every little movement against it--and for just a brief moment, reveals a small, brownish peak that reminds you of the chill in the air. Your own nipples ache beneath your bra, and you can feel them tighten and furl without the tiniest bit of stimulation.

When her fingers touch the next button, your breath catches in your throat before coming out shallow and heavy through your nose. Your chest feels tight and you're not sure whether it's with trepidation or anticipation or both.

But when the fingers move away and the button remains in place, your chest tightens even more, and though you should feel relieved, you realize that you're a little disappointed.

In the end, it matters very little because while earlier she let gravity and your imagination do the job for her, now her hands--both of them--are actively touching, caressing, grabbing. They travel up a smooth stomach to tease around the underside of a breast or run across a slender neck or circle a nipple through the thin fabric of the blouse that does nothing to hide the very obviously hardening shape beneath it. Every once in a while, she casts a scorching look your way.

You ought to reproach her, command her to stop at once, but the words just don't come out through your dry mouth and short-circuiting brain. You truly are at her mercy.

Regardless, speaking now or even reaching across the seat to physically stop her sensual touching would only draw your driver's attention. Your stomach knots again, this time in pure dread, at the reminder that _your driver is there_. One accidental look, one wrong move on Andrea's part, and both your reputations will be, quite plainly put, tarnished.

You hope he's smart enough, after years of driving you around, to equally be invisible and pretend his passengers are as well. You also thank whatever deity is out there that the windows are dark and no passers-by on the busy road have a chance of peeking in and witnessing something they absolutely shouldn't; something that's for your eyes and your eyes alone.

Her movements are subtle enough to be written off as accidental or absentminded if anyone were to see--if it wasn't for the half-opened blouse. But when both hands drop to her sides, you barely get a chance to bask in the reprieve before one rests on the side of a thigh hidden by a black skirt and you know that soon there will be no second-guessing Andrea's intentions.

Sure enough, the hand starts moving: at first just barely, just fingers lightly brushing across the expanse of fabric laid before them, but then it drifts lower and the touch becomes surer, more determined. She caresses her thigh the way she does yours and you can almost feel her touch on your own skin--featherlight and teasing and incredibly soft.

There is a slit in the side of the skirt and you can't decide if that's something you're happy about or not, but nevertheless, Andrea takes advantage of the little exposure her skirt provides and your breath catches again because just as earlier there certainly was a bra covering Andrea's breasts, you're sure that that she was not wearing a garter belt.

You can't see the entire garment, to your relief and dismay, but you can just make out one of the suspenders holding up the lacy top of her stocking. A voice inside your head is screaming at you to look away, but you're unable to; your eyes refusing to even blink as they drink in their fair share of skin and lace and Andrea's hands slowly dragging the hem of the skirt up her thighs.

You don't think it's possible for a heart to beat its way out of a chest, but at the moment you're not sure. Yours is pounding so hard and fast that you worry it might be pumping itself full of more blood than it can sustain and is bound to overflow and explode at any given moment.

That would be an interesting cause of death for the medical examiner to determine, you think hollowly in the back of your mind. _Died of endless teasing and unattended to arousal,_ your death certificate would say, and all of your peers, along with the entirety of New York and the fashion world, would turn you into a laughing stock.

And you wouldn't even have died a happy woman because you're only allowed to look, not touch.

Your ridiculous thoughts vanish in an instant when you hear a sigh, and you turn incredulous eyes to the apex of Andrea's thighs, where her hand is undoubtedly moving beneath the fabric of the skirt.

There is no question about what she's doing now, and if your driver looks for just a moment too long, he'll know. Know that Andrea's fingers are running through wet folds, know that they're slipping into her warm depths, know that she's making you watch as she slowly fucks herself in the backseat of the car.

Where your mouth was dry as a desert only minutes before, now you can't swallow fast enough all the saliva it's producing as Andrea bites her lip, as long lashes flutter against flushed cheeks, as her back arches momentarily against the back of the seat and her blouse reveals more of her breasts.

Three, you decide. That's how many fingers are inside her and you know because that's how many she would have put inside you. You can also tell the exact moment they slide in because her legs spread wider--as wide as the confines of the skirt will allow--and a visible shiver runs through her body and makes her nipples harden. There is an answering clench between your thighs.

This has gone too far. She is carelessly fingering herself in the car, on the way to an event, with your driver right there. She's no longer looking at you--not at the moment, anyway--instead keeping her eyes closed while she settles into a slow and subtle rhythm. But it's just as well because you dread to think what kinds of expressions your face is currently showing and you certainly won't be looking in the rearview mirror to check.

Another sigh escapes barely parted lips and this one ends on a quiet whimper that you pray only you can hear. When Andrea's eyes open, they lock onto yours and she licks her lips again, bites them again, and gives you a savage smile that begs to be slapped off her face. Or fucked off, but she's already doing the job for you.

You glare again, for good measure, but you're afraid it lacks conviction this time.

Your blood pumps furiously in your veins, your skin runs hot, and your vision almost blurs as you watch, unable to put a stop to it and unable to contribute. Her pelvis shifts aginst the seat, her hips roll, and her head lolls back against the headrest, and still, with her elongated neck, she turns to look at you through hooded eyes, forcing you to watch her. As if you could look away at this point.

Her smile widens even as her breath comes out heavier, even as her chest rises and sinks repeatedly. With her unoccupied hand, she steals beneath the loose fabric of the blouse and grabs a breast, squeezing and massaging and making you wish you'd packed an extra pair of panties in your purse.

Your toes curl, your thighs squeeze together helplessly, and you restrain yourself from rubbing against the seat, and then Andrea's hand starts moving faster, the muscles in her wrist flexing and relaxing under the thin layer of skin. Her breath comes out shorter and quicker through her lips and she presses them together into a thin, hard line just in time to swallow a moan.

Then she buries her hand deeper under the skirt, squeezes her breast harder under the blouse, and she shifts her pelvis again, and though still as subtle as she can manage, her movements are more urgent, more rhythmic. Her hips rock and hump, her back arches again, and as her body begins to shudder and jerk, she turns to you again, her eyes no more than dark slits pulling you in, consuming you whole as she tenses and shakes, as her whole body spasms in waves while her movements become irregular and erratic.

Your palms tingle. Your heartbeat sounds like drums in your ears. Your head swims. Of their own volition, your hands clench into fists and your muscles tense and lock. You watch and you watch and you watch, unable to get enough-- 

And then it stops.

As if a plug has been pulled, Andrea's body slumps and relaxes against the seat, rising and falling with her quiet, panting breaths, and her lips stretch out across her face again, dopey and sated and mischievous.

That is also when she straightens her posture, removes her hand from underneath her skirt, readjusts the garment, and closes her legs--as if nothing happened, as if it was all a figment of your imagination.

Except for the proof on her hand--her damp and shiny hand, covered in her wetness from the heel of the palm to the tips of, yes, three fingers. Your own tongue darts out to moisten your lips, but you never take your eyes off the sight. You can't.

Especially when Andrea, her eyes gleaming and her smile slyer than before, raises the fingers to her lips. Mouth agape, you watch breathlessly, following her index finger as the very tip presses down on her lower lip and the hint of tongue brushes against it, swirls around it before it drags down her chin, smearing a line of red lipstick in its wake. She doesn't seem to care, though; her smile, if possible, grows and she looks so damn self-satisfied and proud of herself.

You can practically see the sparkle in her eyes as she brings all three fingers to her mouth and they momentarily disappear behind closed lips before they, too are dragged out, leaving her lower lip gleaming with wetness that she licks off.

You think you just might actually die--if not due to your heart, then due to the now painful ache between your legs--when Andrea finally sets to cleaning her fingers thoroughly. One by one, she captures them between plump lips where the lipstick has been smeared provocatively, licking and sucking and allowing you to see the occasional flashes of a wet tongue. You can almost taste her essence on your own tongue; rich and savoury with just that touch of bitterness.

It's not until her fingers are clean of juices but covered in red and saliva that she finally reaches into her purse and pulls out a tissue, and you can see the very clear amusement on her face as she wipes her fingers, lips, and chin clean before buttoning up her blouse, reapplying her lipstick, and fixing her hair.

She's going to pay for this, you decide. You _promise_ yourself that the second you get home, you will punish her. She won't be able to walk for _days_ after you're done with her, and she'll beg you to stop. You will make her cry and plead and scream until _she_ learns her lesson, and if you don't rein your hormones in soon, you might start right here in the car, driver be damned.

But then she turns to you again and her smile is sweet yet tame and the only evidence of her actions is in the pink tint to her cheeks. Calmly, she asks, "Are we almost there?"


End file.
